


Pas de Deux

by tea_petty



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29245872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_petty/pseuds/tea_petty
Summary: Yao's playing in yet another production of The Nutcracker, but this year there's a new dancer.
Relationships: China/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 13





	Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr; tea-pettiest

“It isn’t a love story.”

Yao found himself saying what had become a little mantra of his during the holiday season for what felt like an uncountable time, though as usual, it seemed to fall on deaf ears.

Classical musicians seldom got the glitz and glory artists from more contemporary music genres received outside of their own little, close-knit demographic, though Yao had been playing for long enough and had a place in a reputable enough orchestra that come the end of the year when he mentioned playing in the pit for  _ The Nutcracker _ , people’s eyes would light up with recognition and the excited murmurs would drown out his very earnest, very schooled expectations for what a proper production should entail.

Even Yao’s family, who didn’t have the same ritualistic attention for  _ The Nutcracker _ each year as some of his colleague’s families had, could talk excitedly about the Rat King and the Sugar Plum Fairy through holiday gatherings. 

His niece in particular had a fondness for Masha and her final dance with the Nutcracker Prince.

Yao grimaced every year when she brought it up, like clockwork. He could remember that production well; it had been contemporary enough to mar the original story with one poorly placed cliché. 

“Technically, they’re not supposed to dance during that,” he would say, trying to get a word in edgewise.

Jun Ming didn’t seem to care though; her eyes were starry as visions of a big, romantic waltz flitted around inside her head like eddies of snow outside the window.

To her credit, she was nine and the final pas de deux  _ was _ terribly romantic. Incidentally, the man who played the Nutcracker Prince this year was also ridiculously handsome – though Yao kept this part to himself.

In any case, none of that mattered. Handsome or not, this wasn’t a love story.

His cousin, Li Na, would humor Yao at least a bit – if not a love story, then what?

This was a very good question. 

Yao had been thinking on it through his years playing in the pit and had yet to settle on any certain answer. A fairytale, perhaps. Or maybe a story about childhood dreams and growing up. 

“Can’t these also be love stories?” Li Na would point out.

Usually, that was where the discussion would peter out with Yao conceding. In his head, he was still indignant but there was something inside him that felt very small about admitting his unwillingness to bring romance into either of these interpretations.

-

The following week, rehearsal was blocked out for three evenings. Yao showed up early; too much of a fixture at this venue to worry about getting lost and too eager to get to work to have the other spheres of his life encroach on his rehearsal time. 

He prepped methodically, wanting to keep his hands busy. His bow was in fine shape, though he took great care to run his rosin gently along the strands of horsehair. 

The space filled as the other musicians began to arrive; the seats with their bodies, the floor with instrument cases, and the air with the year’s idle chatter. 

While of course, it was mostly small talk and small talk, given its nature, took great quantities and all kinds to fill a season, two subjects seemed to dominate in the aftermath of the cast list being finalized.

The first was that general consensus deemed the Drosselmeyer creepy. 

While there was a niche within the world of  _ The Nutcracker _ that did in fact, truly believe the character to be unseemly and untoward, the woodwinds talked loudly, their voices carrying. This year’s concern had more to do with the danseur, who spent a peculiar amount of time with the ballerinas and always carried the sourness of scotch on his breath.

Yao decided not to take the whispers regarding the Drosselmeyer too personally this year.

The second debate that simmered just beneath the toes and slippers of the dancers, detailed the Sugar Plum Fairy and her exasperating diva tendencies. This one, rubbed Yao the wrong way a bit. 

She was the  _ prima ballerina _ , after all, so surely she’d earned the right to be a little bit of a pain. Even if this year's Sugar Plum Fairy had been dissolved into Masha's roll — a decision that marked the production's trajectory into his least favorite version of the ballet, Yao kept his opinion to himself once again.

He wasn’t one to pay much attention to the chatter anyway as gossip held very little interest for him.

It was a ‘year in and year out’ sort of thing for Yao. 

Versions changed, dancers came and went, the pit brought in fresh talent to be brought up under the wings of veteran players while waving out those who were set to retire and put down their instruments after decades of playing in the show.

Yao didn’t bother learning all the names anymore. There were so many people that they’d all started to blend together in a blur of concert black, tights, and tulle. He expected this year to be no different.

When the thuds and patter of dancers’ swift-footed steps drummed on the stage — without knowing why he did as there was hardly anything there that could catch his interest anymore – he looked.

Yao couldn't recognize most of the dancers and of course, he didn’t know names but he knew at once which one was the Prince.

Tall and too strapping for Yao to think him light on his feet, was a fair man who smiled so often that he might as well have been scowling. 

His eyes – as fair and washed out as his ashy blonde hair – had a detached scrutiny in them, not as if he saw things people didn’t, but as if he went looking for them anyway.

Yao felt like the danseur was staring back before his gaze made contact. Though he was in his mid-thirties, he found himself shrinking into his seat as if he were once again a young boy.

The dancers clustered together much like the musicians in the pit did, breaking off into chatter. The Snowflakes were rather close with one another, as were the Sweets. 

The Drosselmeyer hung at the fringe of where the Snowflakes had gathered, looking attentive as if he were included in the conversation, though it was obvious that he wasn’t. Masha was tying her slippers. 

The Nutcracker Prince was off on his own, oblivious or impassive to Masha, who stood at a proximity that could’ve welcomed conversation without being too demanding for it.

“I’d like to run the ‘Waltz of the Snowflakes’ first.”

One authoritative voice cut through the gentle chaos and restored order. The Snowflakes leaped up, adjusting their practice skirts and waiting expectantly for the stage to clear enough for them to line up. Masha seemed torn between the director’s instructions and the Prince’s cool demeanor.

The director turned to them both; “Masha, Nutcracker – places please.”

Ivan straightened up and went to his position, rendezvousing with Masha, though not looking half as electrified as the woman did.

Yao flipped his sheet music to the appropriate page and tucked the base of his violin under his chin. He carried the tension here instead of in the wrist of the arm that braced the neck of the instrument; this allowed his fingers to move dexterously at the fingerboard. His bow perched at the ready, kissing the strings without making a sound.

Yao could hear Masha on stage.

“Hi. My name’s Amelia, but you probably gathered that already.” Yao could imagine the little, cheeky smile that often followed that accommodating register in voice. 

“Hello.”

The short answer was still enough to hear the strength of the Russian in his accent. At the response, Yao’s heart gave a lurch and he waited for more but it never came.

He ended up missing the first wave of the conductor’s baton and the first few notes of the score. 

Yao waited, counting the beat in his head so that he could jump in at the next measure. His heart was pounding, almost throwing him off of the rhythm that  _ mattered _ – what a nuisance.

He kept his eyes fixed on the book in front of him and played furiously, his muscles compensating for where his focus escaped him. 

His racing pulse was one thing, the thuds of footsteps on the stage and the knowledge that Ivan owned a pair of them was another.

Yao found himself following this instead of the familiar cadences of the score as they forged through the rehearsal. The bouts of quiet when the conductor would issue corrections to the music – a time Yao used to despise because it took them out of the action and his head out of the scene – was now a much-needed reprieve. 

Yao took the time to catch his breath. 

The conductor said something that Yao missed, then, he lost a few more moments because he never missed and so why should this time be any different?

The flutter of pages and the scratch of pencils rippled around him, finally tipping him off to the fact that he, once again, had some catching up to do. Yao’s shoulders jumped in his surprise and he reached up to the ledge of his music stand to reach instinctively for his pencil. 

It wasn’t there.

Further startled by this terrible, little revelation, Yao’s hands went to pat at his pockets. He’d never in his years shoved his pencil in his trouser pockets during rehearsal, but then again, he didn’t very often find himself frantically searching for anything during rehearsal. Today was a day of all sorts of firsts, it would seem.

The conductor’s manner of speaking had a slow, leisurely, galumphing sort of rhythm to it; Yao had until the end of his little spiel to find his pencil, make the adjustments in the music, and be ready to practice it over.

As Yao searched and searched again in the same empty pockets, the dancers took a short break. The Snowflakes rolled their shoulders and necks, Masha was practicing, bumping up and down from an en pointe and back — something that grated Yao's nerves at the back of his mind since, in an  _ idea _ l production, she wouldn't be en pointe at all.

Ivan had strayed closer to the perimeter of the pit; Yao could pick him out from his peripheral vision.

There was a fluttery little movement coming from Ivan’s blurred form. Yao set his jaw, his frustration and relative incompetence heating his skin.  _ Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. _

Someone cleared their throat and Yao looked up, frustrated at the disruptive sound and its contribution to the general disorder. It was Ivan.

Yao was still burning up on the inside, still under the assumption that it was annoyance that fueled him.

Ivan was staring straight at Yao. 

Yao quirked an eyebrow the way one did at strangers – a ‘ _ what are you looking at, huh _ ?’ in not so many words.

Ivan didn’t look away, instead, he widened his eyes, as if to stare harder at Yao. One finger reached up to brush behind his ear.

Yao raised his own hand to mirror the gesture, about to make a separate gesture to demonstrate the uselessness of the first – until his finger caught the rubber end of his pencil and sent it clattering to the floor.

Only his immediate neighbors watched curiously as Yao bent over to pick his pencil up. Right. 

The perch of his ear. It was that or tucked into his hair when he had it tied into a convenient knot.

When Yao came back up, he quickly made the appropriate corrections to the music before tucking the pencil back behind his ear. He hazarded a glimpse back up to the stage. 

Ivan was still there, still watching him, only now his mouth was turned up into a little smile.

Yao’s cheeks were awash in heat all over again as he gave the danseur a grateful nod. When Ivan returned it, Yao felt the sharp movement like a punch in the gut. 

By the time the conductor raised his baton once more, Yao was winded all over again.

-

Much to Yao’s relief, this year’s production had left the overture undanced.

Obviously, Yao hadn’t talked to the man himself, but still, he was comfortable in saying undoubtedly, that this is how Tchaikovsky had intended it to be performed – with the space visually empty. Rather than being a piece to just be watched, it was supposed to get the audience’s anticipation up, up, up, to fill them with the same sense of childish eagerness and excitement that served as the backdrop for the entire ballet.

Yao practiced constantly, his quick, flitted movements reaching a technical perfection that he strove to improve upon through even more practice. 

More than usual, Yao could feel his own anticipation like a coil in his gut. With each rehearsal, he felt himself wind tighter and get better, more precise. It was like he was being tuned. 

His nerves felt like livewires in him, buzzing with anticipation – and for what? A show he’d seen and played in so many times he could probably dance it himself now?

Yao didn’t think of the answers to these questions, or even the questions themselves really. 

Instead, he practiced. Then he went to rehearsal, and then he went straight home, to practice more. 

It was like after so many years of moving through the same pieces, he’d put on glasses and could see a whole new side to what he was playing; he played with the cadences and rhythm. He drew his favorite parts out when he was alone, pulling like taffy sweet on his tongue. He scurried through the faster parts, feeling the rap of the battle drums clash in his chest with the uneven thud of his heart.

During rehearsals, the score was as natural as breathing. 

His fingers memorized the feel of each note, each rest, each space in between. Yao was certain that the score must’ve been so embedded in him at this point, that someone could’ve run their fingers over his and read his calluses like braille. 

He was fiercely proud of his skill and even more so of the results he’d distilled from it with a bit of work.

Never one to look to others for validation, Yao let his pride glow fiercely in his chest like hot coals in a heat he fanned himself. Rehearsals were his greatest happiness and in the moments he could afford to, without realizing it his eyes would search upwards towards the stage, searching for a glimpse of a certain danseur and wondering if that same danseur was maybe chancing for a glimpse of him too.

Every once and a while, Yao could make out the reach of an arm or the sturdiness of a leg but never a face and never those eyes.

Yao’s playing was immaculate and he willed for it to reach Ivan, even through the sheer wall of sound coming from the pit. It was a ballet; how stupid to want to stand out as one violin among so many. Still, late at night, with the score stuck in his head and the fatigue leaching from his achy muscles, Yao would imagine that Ivan knew which sound was his, and notice the perfection and think of how brilliantly it complimented his own.

These thoughts were after midnight only, when Yao’s mind had slipped enough to let only the tiniest of indulgences through. During the day he’d wait for rehearsals and during rehearsals, he’d watch for the flex and strain of those strong, proud legs to tide him over until he could go home, where he could go to sleep and be strong and proud too.

-

It was rare that Yao played in a production with children on set. The little swans in  _ Swan Lake _ had all been played by full-grown women and there was almost no room for children in  _ Don Quixote _ – just a cast of colorful grown-ups who had hardly really grown up at all. 

On the rare occasion Yao had to work with children on the premise, he usually treated them with indifference if not the appropriate detached kindness of a colleague-acquaintance. Yao liked kids and Yao liked the theater but working in the latter ensured he had very little time for the former.

This year, Masha and the Drosselmeyer’s nephew in the first few scenes were to be played by actual children – a decision Yao firmly approved of in the spirit of the original production. 

During the breaks in which the adults would break off into their respective little cliques, Little Masha and Little Drosselmeyer would band together, the lone mirth seekers in a room full of cut-throat professionals. 

They’d exchange sweets they’d taken with them — practically contraband among the dancers — trading them like cards.

Most of the dancers ignored the children during these breaks and left them to their little game. Yao thought that must be why it jumped out at him when Ivan went over to them on one such occasion, shiny foil gleaming from beneath his loosely curled fingers.

Yao pretended not to notice as Ivan dropped down onto one knee so he could more easily join the children’s conversation.

“My grandmother gifted me all these nice chocolates, but I can’t possibly eat them by myself.”

The kids looked wide-eyed from the danseur’s face to his hand where the chocolate was.

“Would you like to help me?” Ivan asked kindly.

Yao watched as the children accepted the chocolates and repaid Ivan with wide, muddy smiles.

Ivan seemed to feel the other man’s stare itching at the back of his head because then he turned around, his own mouth still turned upwards.

“Would you like to help too?”

“I—” Yao’s face warmed at his clumsiness in being caught. “Sure.”

Uncertain as his voice sounded, Ivan took his word at face value and stood to offer Yao some of the chocolate. Yao met Ivan halfway and though he tried hard to avoid touching the other man in accepting the sweets, their fingers brushed anyway.

Yao couldn’t have ignored the man if he wanted to; the chocolate was warm and a little soft from the time it had spent in Ivan’s palm. It melted quickly on his tongue and the sweetness lingered.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a moment to steady himself before he met Ivan’s gaze.

The other man surprised him by laughing.

“You really are the one helping me – my dear grandmother sent truly too much for just me to eat.”

The sound warmed Yao from head to toe and he couldn’t help but laugh along.

“Ah— well, I meant for that one rehearsal too. You helped me find my pencil. I never thanked you properly.”

“Yes, yes, I remember.” Yao could see from his smile that his teeth were straight and white, like pearls in a dowry. “You looked all over and it was behind your ear the whole time.”

“That’s right.” The embarrassment resurfaced in him, fresh as the day he’d felt it for the first time. “It was really dumb of me.”

“It was very cute.”

Yao felt like the air had been pulled from his lungs. He coughed to put off the need for an immediate reply, meanwhile, Ivan’s smile never faltered. Yao, for the first time in his life as a performer, had no idea what to do.

Luckily, the director was there to tell him – break was over, and it was ‘ _ Places! _ ’ once more.

-

Yao liked to watch Ivan dance, all the more so since their encounter with the chocolate, though admittedly, rehearsals were dampened by the fact that where the Nutcracker Prince went, Masha went too. 

Like a mosquito, she seemed to buzz around Ivan, an unfortunate necessary companion to his seamless elegance. Even when the conductor had them paused to make corrections, Yao could make out Masha on the periphery, up on her toes and down again, en pointe, and ‘out’ as it were.

What was she trying to prove? She had already gotten the part, hadn't she? She may have been the main character but even the main character was, after all, just a little girl playing dress-up, hobbling around in her dreams like they were her mother's heels while the fantastical figures in them turned a blind eye to her juvenile naïveté. 

Yao had always seen this as the real story behind  _ The Nutcracker _ ; a young girl gets a night at her dream of being capable and revered. She saves the kingdom and not only is in league with the beautiful ballerinas that live there but has them indebted to her. In the end, they give her the greatest gift they can think of – a glimpse of their art, a lovely performance, the final, grand pas de deux. 

In some versions, Masha and the ballerina who played her were gifted the opportunity to dance it themselves ( _ gag! _ ).

So then, maybe it was a story about growing up, after all.

Yao kept watching the dancers throughout rehearsals, and then when they ended, Yao stayed late, taking his time packing up to make sure he got to watch them finish up. He would often pause in the process of snapping his case shut at the end, in favor of staring, watching Ivan at one of the few times where he couldn’t catch Yao because he was too engrossed in his art.

Ivan was steadfast in his grace. With each step he took, Yao felt himself get further gone.

He would’ve cast Ivan without even seeing him dance; even in just his rehearsal attire, he looked nothing short of a prince.

Sometimes, Yao would swear that Ivan was hanging back after rehearsals too. 

They were supposed to end at eleven, so Yao had started staying to 11:05. When Ivan started staying until 11:10, despite how practice still ended at the top of the hour, Yao had to start staying until 11:15.

To test this theory, Yao, very reluctantly, packed up a tad bit hastier than what they’d grown accustomed to – 11:07, rather than waiting until 11:15. 

Astoundingly, Ivan seemed to get a second wind in getting ready to go. Yao found himself at the glass double doors to leave the performance center at 11:10, and Ivan found himself there too. Both of them stared out into the frosty night, each one assuming the other was reaching for his keys or something. 

They stood in silence. Yao wanted to say something cultured and articulate about the ballet, or maybe something witty to counter how he’d wilted in on himself in their last encounter. When a few more minutes passed and he couldn’t though, he gave up and stepped forward to leave.

Ivan hit the doors first, one broad shoulder pushing it open. He stood to hold it open for Yao, who couldn’t help but catch his eyes on the way out. At this proximity, Yao could see that Ivan was a couple of inches taller than him. 

How had he not noticed that before?

“Thank you,” he muttered.

“Of course,” Ivan smiled, friendly as always.

Outside, their breath fogged like gun smoke at their lips.

Yao thought this apt; it certainly  _ felt _ like there was a loaded gun between them.

They paused again, the cold making their breath feel like sandpaper against their lungs. Ivan spoke first.

“Well, then, goodnight.”

Ivan bumped his shoulder affectionately against Yao and it sent a jolt of electricity through him.

_ Bang _ ! 

“Ah, yes, good night,” Yao said, though Ivan was already heading towards the side of the parking lot opposite to where Yao had parked. Yao felt another opportunity slipping through his fingers and panic welled in him. “Stay warm!” 

He called after the danseur, a little lamely.

Ivan paused and looked back at the other man from over his shoulder, one brow quirked. 

Yao mentally slapped himself. Then, a wide grin spread at Ivan’s lips and Yao caught a glimpse of bright white. Ivan’s retreating form changed as he ducked his head, probably in laughter. Yao waited until Ivan got into his car before starting towards his own and was rewarded with a final wave from the other man.

That night, Yao went to bed, and instead of dreaming of the Nutcracker Prince and his unlikely suitor, he dreamt of standing in a cold parking lot, his lungs like slabs of ice in his abdomen and his heart like a thing of gasoline. 

Yao never saw anyone else in the dream. He could smell gunsmoke. He couldn’t see it but he knew someone was standing behind him holding a match with that intuitive omniscience dreams gave someone, as both actor and voyeur.

Yao would whirl around to face this person only to wake up before he could see his mysterious companion’s face, left in the pale chill of the morning, swathed in his blankets, a burning ache in his chest.

-

This year’s production was not one Ivan had danced before. It was as if the director couldn’t entirely commit to Vainonen’s version (plus romance, sans children) as the first act utilized child dancers for the roles of Masha and the Drosselmeyer’s nephew. 

Ivan didn’t mind it once. It was fun having the kids on set, so bright-eyed and blind to the hardships they’d encounter later on in their lives if they stayed in the industry. The romance between Masha and the Nutcracker meant more time dancing for him as well. Objectively speaking, this ‘non-version’ version was probably Ivan’s favorite. 

He knew for a fact that Yao probably detested it.

Sometimes, Ivan would listen to the score — immaculate, impenetrable, and he would imagine Yao, playing fervently, skillfully, and undoubtedly, angrily.

The thought of the other man and the tendon at his jaw pulled as taut as his violin strings brought a smile to Ivan’s face.

Ivan caught every glimpse of Yao in the pit that he could, reveling in the grimace the violinist wore. In his head, Ivan could hear Yao’s voice; “ _ The focus should be Masha – or Clara if you’d prefer – and the childish sense of excitement and whimsy. Romance isn’t only a cliché that obstructs the real premise but it almost always involves omitting the parts of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier! The idea of a romance between Clara and the Prince is a phenomenon that was written in, in a version that came out of the USSR and—” _

Ivan counted his steps and debated with Yao in his head, much less invested in being right than the other man was – in fantasy or in the flesh. 

Truthfully, Ivan was getting rather sick of the score by now though he’d readily put the silly, red soldier’s coat back on and dance Yao’s preferred version, just to prove that he could do it justice in his eyes.

He mentioned this — or something of this nature — to Yao one night. 

Ivan couldn’t remember if Yao had done his entire spiel or if he’d put up a fight just for the sake of winding the other man up but he did say the words ‘to do it justice’. 

This was the important part. The ‘in your eyes’ didn’t need to be said aloud when it was just the two of them leaving the building again to venture out into a night so cold and dark that it almost felt like they were the last two people on earth.

God, he should be so lucky.

In the bite of air, Ivan’s words landed and disappeared in the same instance, like the frost had vaporized it, taken them for itself. 

Yao had already heard them though.

Ivan watched as the man’s cheeks grew pink, maybe from him, maybe from the nip in the air.

“Ah, you already do,” he said, his brow pulling into a furrow, his dark eyes staring straight ahead. “You’re a great dancer, obviously and stuff, and—”

The compliment sent warmth trickling through Ivan, almost enough to restore feeling into his quickly numbing fingertips.

Ivan wanted to stop Yao while the words were tumbling out of his mouth, to thank him for the compliment. Thanking someone for a gift made it truly, officially yours, or so his  _ бабушка _ told him. Instead, Ivan decided to respond in a way that wouldn’t so obviously attach his affection to what Yao said to him.

“And stuff?” he teased. “What stuff?”

Yao’s floundering worsened.

“Just you know, stuff. H-helpful, perhaps. Good.”

Ivan cocked an eyebrow at this.

“‘Good?’”

Yao’s face screwed into a tight look, but his eyes retained their commitment to his words, clumsy as they may have been.

“Yes, good.”

Ivan didn’t bother to wonder what exactly Yao described as ‘good’, be it himself or his dancing. He just liked that Yao put him in proximity to the word. The warm trickle had expanded in him, picking up into a torrent. 

He stayed until Yao left for his car this time, deciding it was his turn to watch the other man leave. He was so cold that by the time he got to his own car, it took him two tries to successfully fish his keys from his pocket and unlock the ice-encrusted door — and even then, he’d dropped it once, his fingers feeling too thick in their rubbery, frozenness to function as they should.

Once in his car, Ivan jammed the key into indignation and cranked the heat up as far as it would go. It was minutes before anything other than stale, cold air came out, and minutes past that before sensation needled and pricked its way back into his defrosting digits.

Still, Ivan drove home unable to keep back a smile. What were a few fingers anyway?

-

The next rehearsal, it was the dancers’ and pit’s turn to sit and be dazzled as the production crew brought in a star of their own.

When Yao arrived at rehearsal, he already felt tired. Frazzled. Or maybe just a bit strung out at the prospects of seeing Ivan again. His nerves seemed to pop and crackle expectantly, ready to catch fire when he caught Ivan’s eyes.

To his surprise though, the energy in the entire theater seemed to be crackling – it wasn’t just him.

Everyone was murmuring and whispering, their eyes darting to the stage, where stage coordinators and tech members thudded around by the backdrop of the Christmas tree.

Yao hadn’t seen this before — not here at least.

In the milling of cliques and closely pressed groups where even little Masha and the Drosselmeyer’s nephew could find some confidence in each other, Yao felt alone. There was no one he was particularly close to here, despite the faces that had managed to become familiar enough to him that his memory had started to retain the details of them.

Yao looked around, feeling lost in the theater he’d passed so many hours in.

“Yao!”

His head snapped in the direction his name had come from where he found Ivan. 

Yao had been right in assuming that seeing him would be electric. He felt a feverish heat ripple across his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. 

Ivan was standing by the curtain on stage left, waving at him to come over. 

In this sea of professionals, Ivan was the only tie Yao had, whatever sort of tie that was. In this room full of people, Ivan was the only one who saw him. 

Yao ignored the heat at his skin and went to Ivan, each step he took paired off with a mental reminder to himself to roll his shoulders back, take a deep breath, and for God’s sake,  _ relax _ .

“Brilliant,” Ivan said when Yao was in earshot of a lowered speaking register, and at once, any measure he’d taken to steady himself had been dashed away.

“Excuse me?”

Ivan raised his brow and nodded at the Christmas tree nestled at the back of the stage.

“The tree. I heard that they’re finally shelling out enough money to get big, growing tree.”

It took a few moments for Yao to realize what Ivan was talking about. This was partly because Yao had been watching Ivan as he spoke, noticing the firmness of the other man’s jaw, and partly because in the years Yao had been with this particular production team, they’d never, ever used an upward mobility tree. 

Yao could feel his eyes widen.

“Wow, no kidding? They finally did it?”

There was another thud on stage and then a yelled command that he didn’t quite get. Before Ivan could answer, the crowd of people on stage had started stepping back, the monotony of their conversation lulled to a hushed murmur. A shout came from the wings and then suddenly the tree was elongating, stretching upwards as the ‘flames’ on the candles ornaments and star topper flickered and flashed. 

Several people let out an appreciative whistle. 

Yao, intending to turn his head up to watch the tree grow too, turned his face up just enough for Ivan to see his opportunity. In the next instance, Ivan’s fingers had found the collar of Yao’s pressed shirt – perfect for tugging him close and sealing his lips over his.

No one else saw; their eyes were fixed on the tree.

Yao jerked his head back at once and both men’s brows lifted in surprise. His face was obviously red now and despite the pulling at his gut that had told him to kiss the other man, Ivan suddenly wondered if he’d done the wrong thing.

Ivan expected a hasty, clumsy explanation as to why it had been a mistake. Or maybe, Yao was the type of man to stalk off in silence when pushed too far. Come to think of it, Ivan had no idea what sort of man Yao was in the slightest. He knew he was a violinist – a skilled and disciplined one at that. 

He knew he liked sweets. 

That was barely a thimble full of information; not even the tip of the tip of the iceberg, and still Ivan had decided that he wanted this man enough to kiss him.

And what sort of man did that make Ivan? He let himself be preoccupied with these things and slid easily out of a moment that was currently throbbing inside Yao’s skull like a sledgehammer had been taken to the bone.

Yao was not one to be left to flounder in his feelings alone. 

He grabbed Ivan’s hand, noting the strong edges he felt as he did so, and tugged him behind the curtain. Here it was dark and, with everyone on stage to watch the tree (or else working the tree itself), quiet.

Then it was again, Yao, as he rolled onto the balls of his feet, his hands catching at Ivan’s jaw as he pressed his mouth to his. 

Now it was Ivan’s turn to be caught by surprise. 

Yao’s lips moved fervently against Ivan’s, tender and hasty like it was a secret between them that might disappear if they didn’t tell it quick enough.

One long, lithe-fingered hand remained at Ivan’s jaw, cupping it, holding him where Yao could kiss him better, while the other settled down in tiers; first to Ivan’s shoulder before finally curling lightly against his chest. Ivan delighted in this.

Good things came in threes. It was something else his  _ бабушка _ had said often. Here, it was Yao’s kiss, Yao’s fingers, and finally, Yao’s tongue.

Ivan, who was never one to let anyone in, parted his lips when he felt the tip of the other man’s tongue trace the chiseled seam of his mouth. When Yao slipped it in, the taste set him on fire from the inside out.

Ivan was overjoyed; he couldn’t help the chuckle that rumbled in his chest. The only thing that could was Yao, once again pulling away, caught off guard and not to be teased.

One of Ivan’s hands reached up to catch Yao’s cheek, mirroring the hold Yao had on him.

“Helpful,” Ivan murmured, his eyes winking back playfulness even in the dark. “Good.” 

He stroked his thumb over the flat of Yao’s cheek, admiring the hue he knew was there, though it was too dark to see.

-

Sometimes, Yao wished he wasn’t in the pit.

That isn’t to say he disliked what he did – he wouldn’t have kept doing it for so many years, nor would he be as good as he was if he didn’t enjoy it. However, there was a cost to everything and Yao’s payment for living in the theater was seeing through the illusions it painted for the audience.

He could be romanced and charmed by the theater, certainly enough, but he wasn’t put under the spell the way even the most perceptive and loyal of spectators were.

That being said, he still enjoyed watching the stage unfold during the performance. He loved watching mechanical magic as it whisked Masha’s home away and brought in a world where the Land of Sweets could be pointed out on a map and where blizzards danced in between the people they stranded.

And though he’d been the first one to denounce  _ The Nutcracker  _ as a romantic ballet, he was coming to like the idea of a place existing where handsome princes could be saved and enchanted by someone who held no more endearing of a quality than having a dream.

He liked watching the costumes flutter and gleam, loved watching the myriad of dancers – particularly in this ballet – with their festive, leaping movements. He even liked watching  _ Mère Gigogne _ come out with her wide umbrella skirt, her troupe of children dancing out from under it. 

On the matter of Mother Ginger, Yao couldn’t begrudge some of his colleagues for wincing at her continued appearance in the show.

He knew to be at least vaguely offended by the ‘tea’ dancers, with their conical, bamboo hats and acrobat-like movements; a clear caricature of Chinese culture, though his years in working with the production had diluted the strong repugnancy he’d initially felt for it.

He wasn’t so married to the gaudy characters embedded in the celebratory dances of the production, so much as an innate part of him clung to what Mother Ginger represented. It was cheesy but true – Yao adored the idea of a big family in the land of the sweets.

Or maybe, he just really liked the idea of a big family.

He brought it up that night when he and Ivan were leaving the center for the night. He didn’t know why he did either. It just came out, as most things did with Ivan around, like a heartsickness.

“I like big families,” he said.

The phrase filled the empty lobby area like he’d pulled the release mechanism on a parachute. Now it was just out there and they both had to deal with it.

Past the glass of the double doors, the world looked frosty and quiet. Several inches of snow piled onto the tops of cars like frosting. The sidewalk shone with a deadly smoothness. Adequate reason enough to put off leaving for the night, Yao supposed.

“I do too.”

It took a moment for Yao to register Ivan’s response. 

When he did, he turned his head slightly, without tearing his eyes from the other side of the double doors.

“You do?”

“Mm. I grew up with two sisters and the house still felt empty. Then, three of my cousins came to live with us growing up." Ivan's lips twitched in amusement. "My parents even took in a foreign exchange student when I was in secondary school.”

Yao smiled at this.

His own upbringing had been similar. Maybe he hadn’t had siblings or foreign exchange students, but he had a massive extended family that lived close and met often. 

‘It takes a village’, so they said, and Yao had always been supremely grateful that he’d had his.

“You want kids then, yes?”

Yao’s face warmed. He’d felt like Ivan had just asked him what side of the bed he wanted.

“I do,” he admitted. “A whole house full.”

Usually talking about the potential for children stressed him out, because it was often accompanied by an Auntie’s admonishment that he find a wife soon. Here with Ivan, he felt none of that pressure. He allowed himself to hope for the big, warm house and his own troupe of children to wear it down.

“Me, as well,” the other man confirmed.

-

With the roles of the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier done away with altogether, Yao would’ve normally had very little hope for the final pas de deux, and most everyone who knew him knew that. This year though, he was secretly grateful that the director decided to give the cavalier’s dances to the Nutcracker Prince.

Yao didn’t have the luxury of watching it, of course, though his seat in the pit allowed him a glimpse of Masha's face when Ivan lifted her. 

The  _ prima ballerina _ was supposed to dance this piece, and during its climax, her partner lifted her up, as if she were the last beautiful thing on earth for him to display to the world.

Yao barely noticed her.

It was Ivan who stood out to him, his radiance evident even in the firm, practiced grip of his hands. Those hands were trustworthy – those fingers knitted together were stronger than whipcord, that fair skin, finer than ivory.

He played, his stomach flipping as he let the score carry him far away; away from the audience and the theater, away from this frozen city. 

Somewhere where the greatest evil was a Rat King and where a handsome prince always seemed close enough to ascertain a happy ending.

Yao thought of how he’d watched Ivan dance the night prior. 

It had been their final run before opening night and Yao had missed the final call after break. It had been the first time he’d stared from stage left and peered at the pit and stage without him being a part of the process. 

The initial embarrassment at having missed his cue burned off quickly as he saw Ivan on the other side of the stage, his costume glittering under the full force of the stage lights.

It was there that Yao got to see Ivan be a prince. His movements strong and proud, cutting the perfect figure of gallantry to Masha’s flowering regality. 

Yao was standing in the shadow of the red, sweeping stage curtain, watching as Masha turned with Ivan’s hands at her waist, always ensuring that her eddying circles were completed.

He and Ivan had kissed in the protective shroud of this same curtain several rehearsals ago and it was hard not to let those fluttery, skittish feelings work their way up to warm his face when Ivan stood several meters away, dressed as a prince.

Masha stood before Ivan, facing him with a nearness that Yao envied even if he knew it was just a show. Her elegant movements slipped through her body like water as she lifted her leg up to a near one-eighty. Ivan’s hands were there, guiding her as her body dipped sideways. 

Rinse and repeat. 

The score picked up as Masha danced away on her toes, her feet moving with the flittedness of butterfly wings. Ivan, with a moment to himself in this step for two, lifted his arms as if to guide the audience’s eye to follow after Masha. 

The dance had originally been choreographed for the Sugar Plum Fairy and her cavalier, so of course, Yao knew it was intended to showcase Masha, who in this production received the Sugar Plum Fairy’s parts, as Ivan, who played the Nutcracker Prince, received the cavalier’s. 

Still, Yao’s eyes never left Ivan. The idyllic smile on his face, the decorum in his stance – it was breathtaking.

Masha's movements took her away from Ivan, who followed closely in her wake, never smothering or inhibiting her, but always waiting to catch her when she needed it. Yao watched his chasing motions.

God, who would run from that? 

The realization hit him so hard in his chest he would’ve doubled over if his eyes weren’t so resolutely fixed on the dancers on stage; with every fiber in his being, he didn’t want to run from Ivan.

Yao continued to watch. 

Ivan was like Masha’s shadow as they moved, with each time they parted denoted with a shared look that almost gave the appearance that they were in conversation with each other. Depending on who you asked in the production, they probably were.

Both Ivan and Masha parted after their first successful lift, arms raised like two teammates celebrating a win. 

There was a connection there – a mutual understanding. 

Yao recognized it from the icy sidewalk leading from the theater to the parking lot.

Ivan lifted Masha up into the climax of the piece and when the moment passed, she was still in his arms, rocked with a gentleness of a fussing child before she flipped elegantly over, now perched on Ivan in a swan-like formation. Ivan whisked her around the stage like she was flying.

Yao suspected strongly that he had a knack for making people feel like that.

The music finished with a flourish and Ivan and Masha held their final pose; bodies bent together in a slant Ivan was holding them through. 

Yao had never envied a ballerina before. He fingered at the smooth side of his coffee cup and watched them. 

-

After opening night, Yao and Ivan left the theater together hand in hand; a development that Yao had initiated seamlessly and without meeting the other man’s surprised gaze. From there, they walked their usual route out of the theater and to the glass double doors marking the entrance of the performance center. Yao was hyperaware of his hand in Ivan’s; his fingertips were rough with calluses and his palms tended to get clammy. 

Could Ivan feel these things now?

Yao tried hard not to think too much on this and thankfully, Ivan seemed to have something at the forefront of his mind, more pressing than hands.

“You know,” he started. “My family did not come tonight.”

This surprised Yao. When Ivan had spoken of his family, he’d always painted a portrait of a cozy, close-knit unit. 

“I’m sorry they missed you. You were incredible.”

Yao really thought so.

At this though, Ivan ducked his head a little and at first, Yao thought it was due to the light chuckle that seemed to overtake him though upon closer inspection, he would’ve bet that it was also to avoid drawing his eye to the faint red at his cheeks.

“You misunderstand me. I mean, they didn’t come tonight because they’re coming tomorrow.”

“Oh. I see.”

He didn’t really.

Ivan ducked his head again and laughed. Yao was mesmerized by the way the corner of the other man’s eyes crinkled and he smiled too.

“I was meaning that – it is late now, for sure, but maybe, you would humor me and we could go get dinner.”

“Oh.”

Yao’s throat twitched. He couldn’t tell if it was the fluttery nervousness that he’d been keeping sealed in his gut or a silly, boyish giddiness that was welling in him.

Easy, Yao chided himself. This wasn’t some sappy Hallmark rom-com. This was real life —  _ not _ a love story.

Meanwhile, Ivan gave Yao’s hand a squeeze.

“You know, usually I take a man to dinner before our first kiss,” Ivan added. “You already have me breaking all my rules.”

Yao’s face went hot. 

“ _ You _ broke your rules. You kissed me first.”

“But you didn’t have to kiss me second.”

Real-life, Yao. Not a story. 

His heart thudded in his chest; forget nerves or butterflies or whatever — he was almost certain he was having a heart attack.

“What do you say then? Dinner?”

This was not a love story. It was a mantra that seemed to live in him like his heartbeat.

“Yes,” said Yao.

  
  



End file.
